Hazard Perception
by fiologica
Summary: It happens, sometimes. Lying awake all night because your brain just point blank refuses to switch off. So, when you have to be up early for work, you contemplate calling in sick... and then go to work anyway. When you trip over, break a cup, and hurt yourself in the process, Mr. Fell tends your wounds and offers warm words of comfort. Reader-insert.


It happens, sometimes. Lying awake all night because your brain just point blank refuses to switch off. All kinds of inane chatter wanders through your mind. Snatches of music. Memories of mistakes you made nearly a decade ago. You absolutely cannot get comfortable. The blankets are too warm. You are too cold without them. You have hayfever (or, you think it's hayfever, anyway - it is the middle of summer, after all).

So, when you have to be up early for work, you contemplate calling in sick. You feel a hint of guilt creeping up your spine. Your cheeks colour slightly. Mr. Fell would be utterly crestfallen if he knew you were thinking this way, but you also know that the lack of sleep is going to catch up with you later. You just hope you can fight off exhaustion long enough to get through the day. You sigh and throw the covers back.

By the time you arrive at the store, you have at least had a cup of coffee or two. The door opens when you turn the handle. Business as usual. Mr. Fell is working on one of the books he happens to be restoring. He spares you a glance and a warm smile. Your heart sinks as you remember the guilt of hoping you could go back to sleep. How could you ever disappoint this man?

"Good morning, my dear," he greets you kindly. "How are you?"

You pull your work apron on, dipping your head to focus on tying the strings in order to avoid letting Mr. Fell see the colour rising in your face.

"I'm OK," you lie, schooling your features into a smile. "How are you?"

Mr. Fell is gently teasing some thread through a needle, and doesn't respond at first. At last, when he is ready, he replies, "forgive me, my dear: getting the thread through the needle is always a little challenging, but there! As for how I am… Well, I am feeling splendid, as always!"

His smile is so bright and radiant, it is as if Mr. Fell himself is glowing. You smile genuinely for the first time all day. You can't help it. There's something so wonderfully endearing about his enthusiasm, and you privately think he's something of an adorable dork. Not that you would ever tell him.

You fall into your usual routines. Mr. Fell works on a book he's restoring. You potter about, making sure the shelves are stacked correctly (because visitors to the shop sometimes move things around), checking mail when it arrives, unpackaging special orders and matching them with their receipts, some general tidying here and there, and occasionally fetching things for Mr. Fell.

The back of your throat feels a little scratchy. This realisation strikes you mid-morning when you start suddenly sneezing. Maybe just the dust, you think. Absently, Mr. Fell blesses you.

You make tea and hope for the best. Mr. Fell smiles and thanks you, but as usual, forgets about his tea minutes later.

By mid-afternoon, you feel oddly dizzy. You can't quite get your eyes to focus, and it is taking a lot more effort to concentrate. You mishear a customer's name, check the special orders, and return to the desk to make sure you have the right name. A flicker of annoyance crosses the customer's expression, but they provide their name again. You write it down, and check the orders again. Yes, there it is. You apologise for the mix-up and bow them from the store.

You decide to tidy away Mr. Fell's forgotten cup of tea. You trip over a cardboard box in the back room. The teacup shatters. Your knee scrapes on the floor. You want to get up, but you are also just slightly stunned, and you nearly fall over again in your attempt to get back to your feet.

Footsteps approach. You try to lift yourself up off the floor.

"Easy, my dear," Mr. Fell's voice is gentle and sympathetic as he helps you up unbidden. His hands are firm, supporting you until you are steady.

"Mr. Fell, the cup… I'm so sorry…"

Your face burns as you look at the shattered cup on the floor, the tea spilled all over the hardwood. All of a sudden, and without warning, a sob escapes from you like a hiccup, and you cover your mouth with a hand, as if it will somehow hide that you have started crying. You cannot believe that you are an adult and smashing a cup has made you cry. The shame that fills you just makes everything worse.

"Sssh, it doesn't matter," says Mr. Fell soothingly, rubbing your back. "Why don't we have a sit down, and I'll get a look at that graze."

With care, he guides you over to the couch, and helps you to sit, then moves the tissue box closer, and goes to wash his hands.

"There we go," says Mr. Fell, seemingly trying to sound upbeat. "Now then - ah - first aid kit," he adds, casting about for one. Luckily, there is one hanging on the wall. He takes it down, and sets it on the table, rifling through its contents until he finds what he is looking for.

"Hm, antiseptic wipes," he says, turning to you. "I, ah… I shall try to be gentle, but I have a feeling this might sting a little."

Mr. Fell takes the antiseptic wipe from its package, and proceeds to clean the graze on your knee. You just watch in wretched silence, exhausted from lack of sleep, from feeling ever so slightly ill, from crying. The antiseptic doesn't sting at all. The graze is just a little irritated because it is a superficial flesh wound. Nonetheless, Mr. Fell smiles up at you warmly.

"Well done," he tells you in the proud tones of a parent speaking to a toddler who has been treated for a similar injury. "You must be very brave to have coped so well with that."

You shake your head. Having turned away to look through the box again, he doesn't see this. You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to hold yourself together just a little longer.

"Now, I just need to put a plaster on," says Mr. Fell, narrating his way through the procedure. He carefully smooths it into place, making sure it is stuck down properly on all sides.

"There you have it," Mr. Fell pronounces jauntily. "See? Isn't that better?"

You nod silently. His smile fades, replaced by concern, his brows furrowing.

"Are you... quite all right, my dear?"

"Mr. Fell," you start, looking up at him wanly. You feel so unfocused, the weight of exhaustion like a lead millstone on your chest and shoulders. The guilt thrums at the base of your spine. "I'm sorry."

He blinks. Confusion, and then he glances back, before understanding suddenly floods his expression.

"Oh, the cup - no need to worry, it's ah… it can be replaced."

"No," you protest, mentally cringing at the whining tone that suffused your voice. "Mr. Fell, I… I probably shouldn't have come in. I didn't sleep. I was awake all night. I knew something like this might happen, and I…"

A mixture of different expressions flit across Mr. Fell's features. Puzzlement, realisation, and then sorrow. He kneels down to be on eye level with you.

"My dear, I only wish you had told me sooner," he scolds gently. You nod miserably, avoiding his gaze. "Look at me," he adds quietly. When you cringe and shake your head, he repeats more firmly, "_look_ at me."

You look up. His gaze is full of patience, love, kindness, understanding, acceptance. You had expected a stern glare. It somehow only makes you feel worse. But you steel yourself and try to be as brave as he believes you to be.

"I understand, of course, why you didn't - it can be hard to admit when you need help, after all - but I need you to be _honest_ with me from now on. Do you think you can do that?"

You don't honestly know if you can. You want to say 'yes', if only to move past this moment, but the more practical part of you screams 'no'. As if reading your thoughts, Mr. Fell just smiles sadly.

"It's all right, you don't have to answer straight away," he tells you, getting to his feet. "Why don't I make some tea-"

"Mr. Fell…"

He turns to you, blinking owlishly.

"My dear?"

You give the only response you feel you can.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, feeling utterly broken, moments away from dissolving into tears again. Mr. Fell's expression softens.

"I know, dear" he says quietly, reaching out to rest a hand on your head. The weight of Mr. Fell's hand on your head is instantly soothing. You close your eyes, leaning into it. His thumb rubs gently against your skull.

"I know," he repeats softly, as if a prayer, "and I forgive you."

From somewhere, something warm seems to descend upon your back and shoulders, as if a beam of light is shining in through a window. The sense of heaviness around your shoulders and chest melts away. All you feel, in fact, is just… something like grace, you wonder? An odd feeling of relief and peace. It doesn't erase the exhaustion, or the stickiness around your eyes from crying. But it settles your spirit, somehow.

After a moment, the hand on your head is finally lifted, the warmth fades away, and Mr. Fell goes about making tea. By the time the tea is ready, a new set of footsteps is approaching the back room.

"Angel!"

"Through here," Mr. Fell calls back. "Do mind your feet, dear boy"

"No worries, I see it."

There is a sound like someone snapping their fingers. You look up.

It is Mr. Fell's partner, a man you know to be named Crowley. You have met him a couple times before. He looks you up and down, and then his eyes flit to the first aid kit still lying on the table.

"Everything all right?"

Mr. Fell offers a rueful smile as he sets out cups of tea.

"My assistant here has had… a bit of a day, shall we say?"

"Ah," says Crowley, circling around you to take a seat on the other side of the couch. "Been there, know the feeling." He sprawls out, until Mr. Fell gives him a sharp look, and he straightens his posture. Glancing from you to Mr. Fell and then back again, Crowley leans towards you, hiding his face behind a hand in the manner of one about to pronounce a secret, and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"He hasn't been telling you off, has he?"

A cheeky grin crosses Crowley's face as he glances at Mr. Fell. You're too lost for words to really reply - you don't really want to admit that, yes, Mr. Fell did scold you just a little, not just out of embarrassment, but also out of affection for Mr. Fell, and the knowledge that he was doing it for your own good. Crowley just squeezes your shoulder, as if in a gesture of solidarity.

"Crowley, please don't bewilder my assistant," says Mr. Fell mildly.

"Bewilder?" Crowley repeats in mock-offense. "Bewilder? I'm not bewildering. Sure I'm not?" He turns to you, nudging your side with an elbow. "Eh? Sure I'm not bewildering?"

You can't help the little giggle that bubbles up from within you, the blush that colours your cheeks, and oh, it's such a relief after the despair to feel yourself laugh. Crowley rumbles a soft laugh and wraps an arm around you, drawing you close.

"There you go, there's a smile," says Crowley warmly. Mr. Fell is smiling, as well, affection for Crowley evident in every line of his face and body, as well as something that is perhaps relief.

"See?" Crowley goes on, smiling. "Isn't that much better?"

"Yessir," you whisper with a smile of your own, but ducking your head shyly.

"Sir?" Crowley repeats, and laughs. "_Sir_? Oh no, nononono, no, I'm not a 'Sir'. Not by a longshot. Although I'm flattered, I'm sure!"

Mr. Fell conceals a chortle behind his hand.

"I think the last time anyone called you 'sir' was-"

"_A long time ago,_" says Crowley firmly, glancing at Mr. Fell over the top of his glasses. There's clearly a shared history between the pair of them, and stories that might be fun to hear. But, Crowley apparently doesn't wish to divulge right now, and you are too polite to ask, so you let it be.

The clock in the shop chimes, announcing that it is five o'clock. Mr. Fell looks up in surprise, and then checks his pocket watch.

"My goodness, I really should let you get home, my dear," he tells you. "I hadn't realized it was quite as late as all that."

You hadn't realized the time either, but you nod to Mr. Fell, and finish your tea. Slightly shaky still, you get to your feet. Crowley provides his arm for you to brace yourself against as you do so, supporting you until you're sure you are steady again.

"Crowley, dear, if you wouldn't mind," says Mr. Fell, likewise getting to his feet, "Might you be able to drive my assistant home, please? As I noted earlier, she has had something of a day, and I wouldn't like to think of her having to navigate public transport in her current state."

"Sure, no problem," replies Crowley with a shrug. Then, he turns to you, adding, "where are you based?"

"Hackney, s-, Mister Crowley."

You just cut yourself off before you could call him 'sir' again. He narrows his eyes at the polite form of address, but nods.

"All right."

"Please, if it's all right, I just need to get a few things…"

Crowley waves a hand.

"Yeah, sure, go ahead," he says. "I'll be here."

Mr. Fell helps you to find your backpack and jacket, watching you like a hawk in case you fall over again.

"Take tomorrow off," Mr. Fell directs, resting a hand on your shoulder. "And don't worry about it, either. I would prefer to know you have had some rest than see you suffer needlessly. All right?"

"Yes sir," you reply, nodding, a faint blush colouring your cheeks.

Mr. Fell looks at you sympathetically for a moment - and then gathers you into his arms for a hug. You weren't expecting it, but he's warm, and soft, and his embrace is secure and somehow safe, and you slip your arms around him, closing your eyes as he holds you.

"Please, look after yourself, my dear," he rumbles to you, gently squeezing before stepping back. "And remember you can always be honest with me, all right?"

"Yes sir," you nod again, almost wanting to cry again. This time, it's with the knowledge that Mr. Fell cares, though, rather than tears of despair and hopelessness.

"Good," he murmurs, giving your hands one last squeeze. "Well, then, I will see you in a couple days, or whenever you are ready to return. I hope you have a good night, and a better day tomorrow."

"Thank you," you smile, now, bobbing a small bow. "I'll see you soon, Mr. Fell."

"And you, my dear. Mind how you go, and toodle-pip for now!"

**END**


End file.
